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About Breda

Exaggeratin for effect—she’s a goddess, man, a queen in ripped fishnets! Okay, maybe not, but she’s real, and that’s enough. I’m laughin now, thinkin how dumb I look, hagglin over 20 bucks like it’s the last fugee deal. She’s chill, tho, says, “Relax, Morgan, you’re good.” I ain’t told her my name, but I’m rollin with it. In my head, I’m screamin—damn, this is better than a movie! No dystopia here, just two souls vibin in the wreckage. And that’s findin a prostitute, my friend—gritty, human, and fuckin alive.

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Either this is pure word-salad, totally incomprehensible, or Fernando Pessoa is understood. By his own logic, Fernando Pessoa is a prostitute.

First off, I’m a document specialist. Sounds fancy, huh? But really, it’s just me and my laptop, wrestling with PDFs and contracts all day. I live near the Bovenkerk, which is this super old church. Like, it’s been there since the 14th century or something. Crazy, right? Anyway, I’m sipping my coffee, thinking about how I should probably get my act together and head to the office.

Andrea von Kampen